He broke off. And again he laughed, mounting the dark stairs so rapidly beside me that I had some ado to keep pace with him.
Once inside, he threw hat, gloves, and crop down on the table, blew out the candles, and, crossing the room, lowered himself gingerly on to the window seat.
‘Let’s sit in the dark.—Jeshurun! I am stiff, though!—You don’t mind—the dark I mean—do you? It’s more peaceful.’
I minded nothing but delay, for a feverish impatience was upon me.
‘Yes,’ he went on; ‘the finishing touch has to be yours, Brownlow. There’s something I want you to do for me, as usual.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘This: You remember that which happened a year ago to-day?’
His tone changed, sobered. I did remember, and told him so.
‘I have waited through a whole year as a penance—a penance self-inflicted in expiation of certain sins. During that year I have lived cleanly.’